


Ways We Stay Alive

by yet_intrepid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hunter Training, Hurt Sam Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Rescue Missions, Teenchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Gotta be just like the real thing, son,” Dad says, tightening the rope against Sam's bare skin. “So you won’t panic when it happens someday.”</i>
</p><p>Sam's tied up in a shed in the woods. Dean's stuck back at home with a pile of research to get through before he can take out the monster and get Sam back. And Dad? Well, Dad's the monster. That's just how training goes.</p><p>Summer 1995.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of John taking a few months off from hunting in summer of '95 to train Sam and Dean as hunters is something I first encountered in lovesrain44's [Sparta Verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/11750). However, this fic is entirely my own take on that headcanon and is not meant to correspond to that series.

They’re in an old, busted-up shed, about two miles out from the cabin they’re staying in. Dad’s pacing, armed and ready, looking out the gaps where there used to be windows. Sam’s tied up, lying on the floor.

He shifts restlessly, even though he knows it won’t do any good. Dad ties harder knots than anyone else Sam knows; sometimes it’s hard to get them undone even with both hands available. He’s not trying to get free, not really. He just wants to be less itchy. Dad pushed aside Sam’s sleeves and socks when they set up, tightening the rope against bare skin.

“Gotta be just like the real thing, son,” he said, either not noticing Sam’s wince or (just as likely) ignoring it. “So you won’t panic when it happens someday.”

Sam didn’t say that if Dad would just leave him and Dean alone, instead of dragging them to every stateside town with a monster in it, then that _someday_ would probably be much, much further away. He didn’t say a word then, and he doesn’t say anything now. All he can do is wait.

Two hours, he tells himself, as he gives up flexing his ankles and lays his head down on the dirty floor. Two hours, and Dean will be here.

It’s not that long. Two hours is two class periods, or one of Dad’s really long PT sessions, or not-quite-three episodes of _X-Files_. It’s…well, okay, it’s a while. Especially when you’re stuck in a shed, without use of your hands or feet and with only your dad for company. Your dad who hates you about half the time, and who’s currently pretending to be some unidentified monster holding you captive.

Sam feels annoyance and impatience radiating off himself, and he’d be worried about Dad sensing it and laying into him if it weren’t for the fact that Dad’s not going to break out of this scenario for anything. This is _training_ , which means it’s more important than anything but hunting itself.

Sam tries imagining that this is real. That something’s really dragged him off, and Dad’s out of town on another hunt or something, and Dean’s really out there searching alone. He tries to think what he would do. But the shed’s almost totally empty, nothing sharp he can see lying around, and Dad made him empty out his pockets before they started, so he doesn’t have a pocketknife even if he could get to it. He rolls over to face the wall, trying to make the motion look like he’s just shifting uncomfortably, and starts looking for any exposed nails.

Nothing. Freaking nothing.

He almost gives up pretending then. After all, Dad specifically said that this task is for Dean. Sam’s just an objective, a prize at the end. Do the research, find the lair, defeat the monster, save Sam. If Sam starts resisting, Dad’s plan gets messed up, and who knows what happens then?

It’s actually kind of appealing, now that he thinks about it. He could _do_ something, for once. Change the game, help Dean out. After all, Dad always says you should train just like it’s real, and if this were real Sam sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here waiting to get eaten or sacrificed or used as bait.

He twists his hands. They’re behind him, so he can’t see the knots, but he can remember Dad tying them and think what kind he used. After a minute, he flexes his wrists again and tries to see if he can get any slack. No luck.

Other options, then. He could try to dislocate his thumb, but he’s never done it before and he probably wouldn’t do it right. And if he had to try more than once, Dad would definitely notice. He’s not sure what’ll happen if he’s caught trying to escape, but he’s not that eager to risk it. Being eaten and sacrificed are out, sure, but he wouldn’t put it past Dad to knock him around a bit. For training.

Sam rolls back over with a sigh, and suddenly Dad’s looking at him. Sam freezes, holds his breath as Dad comes closer and leans over him, checking the ropes. Apparently satisfied, he backs off and leaves the shed.

Sam gulps in air. Okay. This is his chance. His feet are tied right up against each other, so he can’t walk even a little, but he can scoot around the cabin a little and see if he can find something sharp. Dad didn’t leave weapons or a bag, of course, but there’s got to be _something_.

It’s slow progress, and he’s constantly on the alert for returning footsteps. He scans the floor, the lower walls. There’s a sort of pointy stick, which he catalogues as an option in case nothing else appears. At last, though, he sights something—a nail sticking out of the wall about a foot up.

He twists himself around until his hands are right beside it. His heart thuds in his ears so loudly that he’s sure Dad could come right back up to the door without Sam even hearing him. But he keeps his breaths as even as he can, and little by little he backs the knot right onto the nail. Doesn’t untie it. Just gives himself slack, so he can slip in and out with a little twisting. Then he wiggles out and moves to loosen the ropes around his ankles.

He’s almost done when he hears the footsteps. There’s no time to get back to where he was when Dad left, so he just gets the ropes back around his wrists (and it takes so damn long, way longer than he thought it would, with his hands behind his back again) and lies down and tries to look still. Maybe Dad won’t notice he moved; maybe he won’t see the nail in the wall; maybe he won’t check the ropes.

The door opens.

Dad notices. He gives a little growl under his breath and then in two steps he’s over to Sam and is dragging him up by the shoulder, pulling him back to the corner where he was. It hurts; Sam’s knees scrape on the floor because he can’t get to his feet, can’t walk. And then Dad drops him. Unable to break his fall, Sam barely manages to turn so he lands on his side instead of his face. He looks up, and for a moment he’s not sure if the anger is the pretend monster at the pretend captive, or Dad at him. After all, the whole “you stay where I put you” routine has been a favorite of Dad’s since Sam was old enough to unbuckle his carseat. It just never involved being tied up before.

But then he sees a boot lift and he forgets about Dad, forgets about training, forgets everything but the cold rush of fear.

He curls his knees up tight over his abdomen, but not quick enough to block. And damn it, he wants to get his hands out from behind him to cover his head, but that’d just make the monster angrier. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Dean, he thinks. Dean, where are you?

Two more kicks jolt against his legs and then the monster leaves him alone, goes back to pacing by the door. Sam hides his face in his shoulder as best he can and tries to be thankful that his loosened ropes went unnoticed.

\----

Dean shifts restlessly in his chair. He’s sitting at the table in the cabin they’re renting, shifting through notes and articles, and he’s hating every minute. This isn’t his job, damn it; he’s not the smart one. Dad can put together a trail spread out over years, and Sam’s already quick as anything with picking up the important details, but Dean? Give him a gun. Research is exactly where he’s most useless.

But there’s no one else to pass the research off to this time, so Dean’s here, bending over piles of paper and halfway to throwing something because there’s so much he just doesn’t know. He’s got two hours, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to spend the whole time stuck here just figuring stuff out.

Come on, he tells himself, think. Go back over what Dad told you.

They’d had a briefing, if you could call it that. Just a five-minute rundown while Sam was in the shower. But there’s gotta be some clue in there, something to tell him what to look for in all this mess.

_All right, so Caleb calls you. There’ve been three disappearances in the same small town, and each of the vics has turned up dead within twenty-four hours. He’s gotten the reports, and from the state of the bodies it looks like they were all killed within two, maybe three hours of being abducted. Got it?_

Which sounds garden-variety serial killer, but Dad wouldn’t set up something like this and not involve hunting. He checks the made-up dates Dad wrote down. Lunar cycle, nope. Locations the vics were taken from varied widely. One from school, one from home, one while driving outside of town.

_The vics had their throats slit, but they also had a symbol carved into their upper arms. Coroner’s report describes it as a triangle arranged point-down on a flat base, with a line through the center and extending a little below._

That’s got to be the important bit, Dean thinks. He doodles a little. Triangle, point down. Line through the center, little longer. And then a line across where the point of the triangle is…

It’s an upside-down cross, he realizes. Demons, maybe? He shifts through the articles, looking for anything Dad might have included about demonic omens.

_When you and Sam get into town to take the case, you decide to take a nap after driving all day while Sam walks to a take-out place a little ways down the road. You wake up to the sound of him calling out and go to look. He’s being attacked. You’re unarmed, and hesitate whether to rush into the scene or go back for a weapon. Before you can take action, he’s tied up, gagged, and dragged off into the woods. You’ve probably found the monster, but you’ve lost Sam. Now you have two hours to figure this out, go in, make the kill, and get your brother back alive._

And then something clicks. Man, if a demon had Sam, if a demon was going to _kill Sam_ , Dean wouldn’t have two hours. Dean would have no time, because he would already be too late.

He’s not trying to beat the clock here, not trying to win some game for Dad. He’s saving Sam, and every second he wastes is a second that could mean never getting him back.

Dean starts scanning the articles fast. Not just for demonic omens but for anything, anything at all. And that’s when he sees it. The same symbol he scratched out. A tattoo on a woman’s arm, in an article he’d thought was put in by mistake. She’d died, but she hadn’t been one of the vics. She’d been having such a prosperous life, the obituary lamented, especially for the last few years. Success after success. And she used to own that old plot of woods.

Dean doesn’t know how he put it together. He just does. He’s looking at something summoned by a witch, something she used to control to bring her good luck. And now she’s died and it’s gone rogue.

_And Dean—it’s make your kill, get your brother back. In that order. Because if you save Sam, but the monster’s still on the loose, more civilians will die. Sam can look after himself. Understand?_

But Sam didn’t get a briefing. Sam doesn’t have the articles. Sam doesn’t know that there was a witch, so there must be an altar to destroy. Sam hasn’t been told anything; hell, he’s tied up somewhere with nothing to do but wait for Dean, and Dean doesn’t know much but he knows that doesn’t leave Sam very able to look after himself.

Dean picks up the paintball gun Dad gave him for live-action training and loads all the research into a backpack for Sam. Then he looks around, snatching things up as they present themselves.

He has a plan. Sort of.

\----

Sam’s watching. He’s watching close and careful, and he’s got his ears on the alert, because what he needs more than anything right now is information. Sure, he can slip his ropes now, if the thing gives him half a minute to do it. But after that?

He doesn’t know what it _is_. Can’t even pin down a vague type, if it’s a demon or a werewolf or a shifter. He hasn’t smelled sulfur, but the shed’s overwhelmingly musty; it could be masked. Hell, he could even be dealing with a spirit. Just because the thing hasn’t disappeared where he could see doesn’t mean it’s not fading in and out when he turns his back.

He needs silver if it’s a werewolf or a shifter, and he’s got precious little chance of getting that. He usually keeps a packet or two of salt in his pockets somewhere, but he doesn’t have any now. What _does_ he have? What can get him out of here?

He shifts a little, trying to ease the ache where he got kicked in the gut, and feels something slip under his t-shirt.

Cold metal, smooth wood. It’s his rosary. Pastor Jim sent two with his and Dean’s presents last Christmas, just in case they ever needed them for hunting, and Dean had put his away with his gear but Sam took to wearing it. It’s nice, having something to remind him that Pastor Jim cares, that maybe someone else does too, and it _is_ a good hunting tool, so Dad doesn’t ask questions.

Sam thinks a minute. He’s got one thing, just one, but what can he do with it? Bless holy water, but that takes having water in the first place, and he’s not sure but it’s damn likely asking for some will just get him another couple of kicks. And holy water’s only going to help him if this is a demon.

But he can’t just lie still in his bonds and let the fear win. He’s gotta do _something_ , and this is what he’s got.

It’s just a question. He asks questions he’s not supposed to ask every day of his life.

He waits until the thing turns towards him, and then he clears his throat. That gets him a glance.

“Water,” he says, playing up the hoarseness—he really is thirsty. “Please?”

The thing stares at him a moment. Sam lies still, running the Latin blessing over in his head, wondering if he’ll need to murmur it under his breath or if thinking it will work. He thinks he can get his rosary to fall out from under his shirt if he leans right.

And then the monster’s coming at him with a plastic water bottle in hand. Sam offers a tentative smile. Maybe this will work, he thinks; maybe—

And then his head’s pulled back in a firm grip and the water is pouring down his throat and over his face as he struggles to swallow fast enough. He splutters. Squirms. Then he just shuts his mouth and lets it spill over him, holding his breath so it won’t go up his nose.

When it stops he pitches forwards, gasping. But he’s holding onto one thought: that wasn’t a whole bottle of water. It wasn’t. There’s some left. He can still bless some. It still might work.

When he looks up, the bottle’s on the other side of the room, being capped again and tucked into a bag.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to fold, wants to curl up and feel sorry for himself that his one plan didn’t come through. But he can’t; he can’t.

He feels a hardness starting to build inside, and a bit of anger, and all at once the thing’s back is turned and he’s jerking his wrists out of the ropes and leaning down to work the knots around his ankles with half-asleep fingers. And then he’s up and he’s been seen but he’s got a path to the door and he runs, runs, runs.

He gets out the door, sights a path a few feet out, and bolts for it. The more chance of passing someone the better. That’s not even a Dad rule; that’s just basic stuff you hear in school safety classes. _If a dangerous individual approaches you…_

Footsteps pound behind him and he knows he’s being chased but he’s not gonna give in. Quick glance up and down the path. There’s nobody in either direction, so he swerves into the trees. He’s smaller, can get through the brush better. Maybe throw the thing off.

He zigzags a little so that the noise he’s making is harder to trace. He keeps the path on his left and watches his every footfall and he’s doing everything right and yet it’s not _working_ ; the thing’s gaining on him by the second. He can feel its presence, dark and heavy.

And then something hits him in the back of the shoulder—thud, sting. He’s distracted just long enough to trip, trips just long enough for the monster to grab him, one thumb pressed right where he got hit. Sam crumples to his knees.

Before he can get control of himself enough to struggle again, the ropes are already tight around his wrists. The barrel of a gun touches to his neck and he’s jerked to his feet.

Sam swallows hard and braces himself for the walk back. He’s not going to get out of this one on his own, but how will Dean even know where to look for him?

In a daze he re-enters the shed, falls when pushed, stays where he falls. He stays still as new ropes go around his ankles, this time with more complicated wrapping, more knots. The thing looks at him again, angry, and Sam thinks dully that he’s definitely about to get kicked again.

In the distance, something explodes.

\----

Dean uncovers his ears and peeks over the fallen tree trunk he’s sheltering behind. Two ounces of Semtex was just about right—he was well out of range when he pulled the cord for the blasting cap, and the damage is pretty much confined to the path. But even with the earplugs he remembered to throw in, it was loud. And loud’s exactly what he needs.

He takes out the earplugs and checks his watch. Two minutes. He’s gonna wait two minutes, just to see that the thing took the bait. He’s pretty sure it’ll be coming towards the noise from his left, so once he hears it he can circle around behind it and get to Sam. If it notices him, well. He tightens his grip on his paintball gun. Sucks to be a monster.

Minute and a half. Dean keeps still and quiet, but it’s killing him. Sam’s waiting out there. But he’s gotta try and make sure.

So he listens. Watches. With forty-five seconds until he’s ready to bolt, he hears a noise in the brush. Looks to his left and sees the thing, moving fast towards the marked path and scattered salt. And man, he hates the damn thing, hates it for anything it’s even thought of doing to Sam. He wants to pump it full of bullets then and there.

But that’ll just make it mad, and then everything will go wrong.

He eases up from the ground. He’s already cleared his path a ways, so he can run without making a sound. Dean darts off, checking over his shoulder every so often, the rhythm of his boots scuffing out _Sam, Sam, Sam_.

Two minutes later the old shed comes into view and he hardly slows, just grips his gun in case there’s somehow danger and bursts through the door. It looks empty at first and he stops cold, but then he hears Sam’s voice.

“Dean!”

He turns. Sam’s half-lying on the floor in the corner, tied up. Dean rushes to him, drops the gun, pulls his knife. Sam’s wrists come free first, then his ankles.

“Dean, how are you already—”

“Later!” Dean hisses, and he helps Sam to his feet. They stumble out the door in a tangle of uncoordinated legs, and Dean guides Sam around the back of the shed into the woods.

“I found a spot where we can hide out, maybe a quarter-mile from here,” he says, still low, as they go. “You all right to make it that far?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, tight-lipped. He slips his arm off Dean’s shoulders. “I can run; we’re good.”

Dean looks at him a second, but it’s not a time for questions. He sets the pace at a steady jog and Sam falls in. Soon enough they’re hunkering down under some droopy shrubs, with just enough space for them to sit knee-to-knee.

Sam rubs his hands to get blood flowing. Looks down at his watch. Looks back up. “Dean,” he says. “It’s only been forty-five minutes. How’d you already get everything figured out, make the kill? And why are we hiding?”

Dean sets his mouth. “I changed the game plan, okay. Set off some Semtex for a diversion, came and got you first. Still gotta gank the thing, but I know how to do it.”

Sam’s brow wrinkles. For a second it looks like he’ll protest, but then he shuts his mouth and nods. Good. Back to business.

“What is it, then?” Sam asks.

“Some sort of a summoned spirit.” Dean pulls off his backpack and sets it in his lap. “Brought all the research with me in case you wanted to have a look, but the main bit is, there was a witch, and she summoned this thing to get her good luck, right? And then she died and now it’s just gone nuts.”

Sam nods. “So if it’s a spirit, you can repel it with iron and salt. But if it’s been summoned, will there be bones to burn?”

“Doubt it. But get this—the witch who did the summoning? She owned this patch of land. Her altar’s gotta be here somewhere. Destroy the altar—”

“—and you release the spirit from the physical realm.” Sam grins. “Hey, I think I saw some sort of a building. Back towards the shed, but across the path. Didn’t get more than a glimpse of it, but it could be worth checking out.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “When’d you see that?”

“I got out once. Ran a bit before I got caught.”

“Dude!” Dean cries. “I was coming for you! You know, you could’ve been _shot_ , escaping. You do that sorta thing, monsters get really damn angry. That’s not _smart_ , Sam!”

Sam twitches. “Well, the explosion went off right after,” he says. “So I was okay.”

But when Sam moves, Dean sees a splatter on the back of his jacket and heat rises in his gut, anger and fear and things he can’t name. “Take off your jacket,” he says, pointing. “Let me see that.”

Sam slips out of the jacket and pulls aside the neck of his t-shirt, which is all he’s got on under, revealing a round, red-purple welt with a little blood on it. Dean’s fists start clenching.

“What else?” he asks. Sam’s not meeting his eyes, so he snaps his fingers. “Sam. Look at me. What else?”

Sam shrugs, lifts up his t-shirt. “Kicked me once before I could get my legs up to block.”

There’s a sizable bruise, darkening faster than their standard sparring bruises. “Shit,” Dean breathes. “And it was gonna keep on if I hadn’t set off the Semtex?”

“Uh,” says Sam. “This was from before, actually. From when it stepped out and I moved across the shed to find something to get loose with. It didn’t notice about the ropes, but it wasn’t happy I’d moved.”

Dean punches the dirt beside him. “Damn it, Sam.”

Sam meets his eyes then, all soulful and earnest. “You couldn’t have helped it,” he says. “You got there way faster than I ever thought you would, okay. I’m all right. If me trying to run made it worse, well, I took that risk. It’s not on you.”

“Whatever.” Dean looks down at the backpack on his lap and shifts the subject. “You know, I’m betting it’ll be at the altar once it finds out you’re gone. We’ve gotta come up with a plan.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sam moves carefully just behind the treeline, his eyes darting from the ground to the structure in the clearing. It’s half a picnic shelter, half a rundown gazebo,  and between the upright posts he can see the summoned spirit at the altar.

His hands are cold and sweaty as he gets into position and hides a moment, backed up against a tree. He’s okay, he tells himself. He knows what he’s gotta do. And it’s not like earlier. This time he’s got materials, and Dean’s just across the clearing. He’s gonna be okay.

He takes two deep breaths and swings out from cover, moving fast and quiet to get up to the side of the shelter. It’s got a solid railing around it that’s almost waist-high, and he drops to his hands and knees to scramble along unseen. When he gets to the opening, he pauses. Listens.

It’s silent. He’d have to get out from cover entirely to see where the spirit is.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment and then springs up, mounting the two stairs and sprinting towards the altar in the middle of the shelter. It’s only when he’s tackled from the side that he notices the spirit isn’t standing by the altar anymore.

He goes down hard, kicking and flailing and trying to get a hand into his pocket for salt. But then he’s pinned and flipped onto his stomach and damn it, _damn it_ , he was so _stupid_.

One hand gets wrenched behind his back and he knows all too well where this is going so he kicks out with both feet but the spirit’s too damn strong; it traps his legs and drags his jacket sleeve off and keeps that arm in place while grabbing the other. Sam yells his frustration into the floorboards. Dean, he’s supposed to signal Dean. But no, his hands are tied again, just like before. Useless.

The thing clamps a hand over his mouth, drags him to his feet, and pulls him around to the other side of the altar. Sam fights every inch. Drags his feet, kicks, stomps, bites, tries to wrench his shoulders away. None of it does any good. And then the spirit grabs the knife Sam got from Dean, clicks it open.

Sam goes cold.

It doesn’t come down at his throat, like he thinks it will, but against his upper arm in a flash of pain. Still, he yells against the restraining hand, tries to shout Dean’s name. He can’t struggle now, not when a blade’s so close and he can’t grapple for it.

Another cut and he doesn’t know if he can breathe, doesn’t know if he can do this. When the knife’s drawn back he tries biting again and swinging his head, and for just a second he’s clear, gulping in air and shouting.

“Dean! Dean!”

And then the hand’s back over his face, clamped tighter than ever, and the knife comes down again. Tears flood into his eyes because now his whole arm is itching and throbbing and bleeding, and he can’t get away, can’t do his job, can’t do anything.

The spirit raises the knife and Sam shuts his eyes because he doesn’t want to cry and he hears his cut-off breaths and his heartbeat and then he hears—

“Hey, asshole!”

The spirit swings around and drops Sam to the floor.

\----

Dean’s been keeping his eyes glued to his watch, because that’s the plan; that’s what he and Sam agreed on. Two minutes from Sam starting to work around the clearing, he goes in. Only before if he gets a signal. But at a minute and a half he hears Sam’s voice. Hears his name, desperate and clear.

He goes.

He runs in shouting, gun level, and as soon as Sam’s clear he shoots. Just keeps pulling on that trigger, round after round, getting closer and closer, and the thing drops heavy to its knees, splattered in red. Dean gets up to the steps of the shelter and halts, panting.

“Keep your filthy hands off my brother,” he says, “you son of a bitch.”

And he gets off one more shot, dead at the heart, and it crumples.

Dean swings over to help Sam up, but he’s already on his feet behind the altar. He gives it one powerful shove with his hip and the little table falls, its contents clattering on the floor.

“Dean,” says Sam. Shit, Dean realizes, he’s bleeding. He rushes over.

“Hang on, Sammy,” he says. “Okay? You’re gonna be fine; I’ll get that cleaned up. Think I’ve even got some real bandages in my backpack here.”

“Dean,” says Sam. He pulls away. “Dean, the spirit. Is it gone? Are we—are we done?”

“Sure we are,” Dean says. He sits them both down on the floor. “You trashed that altar; no way it’s still here. Why?”

Sam points his gaze with a subtle nod of the head. Dean’s breath catches and he starts scrambling up, reaching for his gun again, because the thing’s standing up but then it’s just standing and not rushing them and Dean’s brow wrinkles before suddenly he realizes: shit, he just fired about a dozen paintballs into Dad’s chest at close range, broke the main rule of a training scenario, and still came too late to keep  Sam from getting hurt.

Beside him, Sam’s struggling up. “Dad?” he says, uncertainly.

“Untie your brother, Dean,” Dad says, and Dean bites his lip because he forgot, because he screwed up something as basic as that. He picks up his folding knife from the floor, wipes Sam’s blood from it, and uses it to cut away the ropes. Sam clutches at his arm, hissing through his teeth as he puts pressure on the cuts, so Dean pulls off the backpack he’s wearing and digs in it for a roll of bandages. Dad interrupts.

“Sam, you’re old enough to do a field dressing on yourself. Dean, help me clean up this mess, and make sure you get all those paintball casings. Next time, don’t waste your ammo, understand?”

“Yes sir,” says Dean, but he’s not sorry, exactly. He gathers up the empty casings, then picks up most of the altar stuff by himself. Sam pitches in once he’s finished bandaging his arm mostly one-handed. Dad’s looking through his duffel, then swings it over one shoulder and finds his paintball gun to prop against the other.

“All right,” he says, “fall in.” And he sets their pace back to the cabin—not quite a run, but pretty close. Sam looks at Dean in hopeless frustration.

“Dude,” says Dean, with a brightness he doesn’t feel. “It’s just running. You got captured this morning and you’re gonna try and tell me a two-mile run is too hard?”

Sam rolls his eyes, rubs a little at the cuts on his arm, and sets off after Dad. Dean brings up the rear, backpack on his shoulders and paintball gun carried like the real thing.

Train the way you’re gonna hunt, Dad says. Train like it’s real.

Well, Dad’s gonna rip him a new one for it, but that’s exactly what Dean did.

\----

When Sam finishes changing from his sweaty, bloodied clothes into shorts and a fresh t-shirt, he sits down on the bed. He’s tired, and he aches all over—wrists and ankles and stomach and shoulder and shins. There’s a spot on his forehead that’s probably bruising from one of his falls, and his shins have purple-gray marks from Dad’s boots. He hasn’t looked at the bruise on his stomach, but from Dean’s face back when he showed him in the woods, he can guess it’s pretty bad.

Sam sighs. Training sucks, he thinks; Dad’s not gonna let him out of shooting or PT or whatever else because of a couple bruises, a paintball hit, and a few cuts that aren’t even deep enough to need stitches. But it’d be a hell of a lot easier to keep going with all that other crap if Dad cut him some slack once in a while, didn’t make him push through the pain every time while he just gets more and more tired.

He wants to curl up in bed and reread his favorite parts of _Lord of the Rings_. But Dad’s waiting to have their after-mission briefing, and it’ll only piss him off if Sam doesn’t show.

He gets off the bed, grimacing, and heads over to the door. But when he cracks it open, he hears Dad already talking, low and harsh.

“It was an order, Dean. That should have been enough. But fine. Think it through. What if that spirit had cut and run after you got Sam out? People would’ve died, all because you thought you knew better and ignored what you’d been told. We’ve got a word for that in the Corps. You know what it is?”

Dean’s voice is tight. “Insubordination, sir.”

Sam swallows hard. Nothing’s ever good when that word comes out.

“Damn right,” says Dad. “How else were you insubordinate?”

“Uh,” says Dean, “I swore at you; that’s, uh, language that treats a superior officer with contempt. But I wasn’t thinking it was you, Dad; I was thinking about it being a spirit who had Sam. I swear.”

Dad snorts. “And why did the spirit have Sam right then? Because you brought him along, Dean; you put him in danger!”

“That’s _bullshit_!”

Sam hardly knows the words are his until he’s standing right in front of Dad, grabbed by the shoulder again, but let him; Sam’s been thrown around all day and it was Dad doing it. He sees Dad’s mouth open, but he’s faster and louder.

“I wasn’t there because Dean brought me! I was there because I wanted to help. Because I was sick of being tied up doing nothing. It was my choice, okay, _mine_ , so don’t blame Dean for getting me hurt.”

“Sam,” Dean’s saying, somewhere distant. “Sam, it’s okay; calm down.” But Sam doesn’t want to calm down.

“And you know what? That spirit could have disappeared when Dean  came for me and it would have been fine, completely fine, because it was tied to the altar and we still could’ve trashed that. Dean’s plan was good, Dad! It was better than yours, and you just don’t wanna admit it!”

“You shut your mouth,” Dad says, gripping him harder, “or so help me—”

“Or what?” Sam shoots back. “You’ll tie me up in the woods, kick me around, take a knife to me? Been there, Dad, done that.”

“And you know damn well why you’ve done it, too,” Dad growls, as Sam wrests out of his grip. “For _training._ Like it or not, it’s how you’ve gotta prepare for life as a hunter. You’ll thank me when somebody’s got you for real. –Double PT for a week, both of you. And Sam, you’re lucky I’m too tired to take my belt to that stubborn ass of yours.”

“Yes sir,” says Dean, and Sam knows the tone, hears the pleading: _come on, Sam, don’t make it any worse_.

“Yes sir,” says Sam, and he tries, but he still can’t sound respectful.

Dad looks at him. Points to the floor. Sam drops and starts counting out pushups, angry and aching and trying not to think.

He’s just as trapped now as he was in that shed with the ropes around him. And sure, Dad’s not a kidnapping monster, but when it comes to punishing Sam for trying to get free, there’s not really much of a difference.

When Dad okays him to stop, Sam doesn’t get up. Just lies on the floor, breathing hard, feeling the cuts on his arm throb in time with his heart.

“I’m hungry,” says Dean, and there’s that forced brightness again. “You guys hungry?”

Dad and Dean go over to the table. Sam stays where Dad put him and tries not to cry.

Because there’s still nothing he can do. Nothing but wait.

\----

It’s not really time for any meal in particular, but Dean makes sandwiches anyway. There are fresh apples in the fridge, so he pulls out two, one for him and one for Sam. When Dad disappears into the bathroom, presumably to deal with his paintball welts, Dean grabs some chips and two paper plates and goes over to Sam.

“Hey,” he says. “If you’re falling asleep, dude, go to bed. No use sleeping on the floor when you don’t have to.”

Sam doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m not asleep,” he says.

“Good,” says Dean. “Then let’s eat, okay? You wanna go on the porch?”

Sam makes a face, but he gets up, takes the plate Dean hands him, and wanders out onto the back porch. The chairs out there are this weird wicker material that Dean hates, so he sits on the floor instead. Sam sits beside him.

Just sits. Doesn’t talk, doesn’t eat, even though Dean made sure to make his sandwich right and got him an apple without any bruises. Dean bites into his own apple and chews thoughtfully, trying to think what to do.

“You doing okay, Sammy?” he finally says.

Sam looks over at him, like Dean should be able to figure this out. And sure, Dean probably should. But he can’t, and that’s why he’s asking.

“Dad tied me up,” Sam says after a minute. His voice is low and angry, and he looks over his shoulder like Dad might be listening. Which he might; you never know with Dad. “He tied me up and _kicked_ me and chased me down with a gun when I got free—a paintball gun, I know, but he put it to my neck, Dean; it felt like it was real. He pinned me down and sliced up my arm. I—it’s just, we’re supposed to trust him. Obey his orders, believe he’s gonna do the right thing, the smart thing. But I look at his face and all I can think about is—is—”

Sam sounds perilously close to breaking down and for a moment Dean panics. He can’t find words; his tongue feels heavy and dead. He reaches for the most solid thing in his thoughts.

“It’s training.” There. He’s saying something. He’s okay. “Dad was playing a role. He didn’t really want to hurt you.”

“But he _did_.” Sam clasps his hands in his lap, looks up at Dean desperately. “Whether he wanted to or not. He still did, and nobody was making him. And then after? Dean, he shouldn’t have gotten onto you like that. You were smart. Your plan was great. It was better.”

Dean shakes his head. “I got you hurt.”

“ _Dad_ got me hurt; he’s the one who did it. And it was my idea that I sneak around and try to tip the altar.”

“I could’ve said no. I should’ve, too.”

“Yeah? Well, tough, Dean. I made the choice to go, and Dad made the choice to hurt me. You can blame me for having a stupid idea, or him for making up this whole stupid game in the first place. Blaming yourself doesn’t make sense. –But seriously, we pulled it off. Faster than he though we should’ve, too. And now we’re on double PT, and for what? Because we tried hard? Because we treated it like it was real? That’s what he’s always telling us to do!”

Okay, that’s something he can process and respond to. “We’re on double PT because I disobeyed orders and you mouthed off, dumbass.”

“You only disobeyed orders to do other things he always wants.”

“Yeah, and I guess you yelled at him to make him happy, too?” Dean rolls his eyes and takes a big bite of his sandwich. This conversation is getting way too complicated, but at least Sam isn’t lying in the middle of the floor anymore. “You know, when we’re running tomorrow, you’re gonna wish you’d eaten that.”

“I feel like I’m about to throw up,” Sam protests, but he starts picking at his food anyway.

Dean settles in and attacks his food, still watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t even know if he should, but he’s got a feeling in his gut that Dad wasn’t right this time. That he was right. That Sam’s right. And damn it, he hates being angry at Dad, but there’s a dark bruise shaped like Dad’s boot across Sam’s stomach, and Sam was tied up when it got there. And he hadn’t even done anything wrong, just moved around a little. Just tried to do what Dad would want him to do if he were captured for real.

Dean thinks, for one wild moment, that he wouldn’t mind splattering another couple rounds of paintballs against Dad’s chest.

But then he shakes himself, and he thinks: one day a monster will come after Sam, and Dad won’t be there. It’ll be up to me, and Sam will have to tough it out until I can get my stupid ass in gear to save him. One day, if I’m not a good hunter, Sam really will die. And how am I gonna be a good hunter if I can’t even follow Dad’s orders during training?

Suddenly, a week of double PT doesn’t seem like enough of a punishment.

“Dean?”

Dean looks up. Sam’s staring at him over his apple.

“Yeah?” says Dean.

Sam bites his lip. “Are you okay?”

I’m shit, Dean thinks. I’m stupid and reckless and insubordinate. One day that’s gonna get you killed, and then what am I gonna do?

“A-OK, Sammy,” he says. “Want me to get some antibiotic ointment for that arm?”

Sam shrugs. Dean takes that as a yes, so they pick up their plates and go into the house, one after the other. Dean plays medic, digging out the first aid kit. Sam plays guard, keeping watch for Dad as Dean smears cold cream over his cuts.

There’s always a new role to play, Dean thinks. Agent, captive, medic, monster.  There’s so much he’s gotta learn, so much he needs to be.

Game’s over, sure. He won’t deny he’s glad about that. But training’s every second of every day.

It’s how they live. It’s how they stay alive.


End file.
